


Happy

by GhostGarrison



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, Crying, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Anders/Karl Thekla - Freeform, Past Relationship(s), pre-handers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 04:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12335535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: Hawke hates his upstairs neighbors. Their loud music keeps him awake, the tapping of their feet while dancing annoys him, and they're just altogether toohappyfor his miserable tastes. Until one day, the music... the dancing... the smiles... it all just stops.





	Happy

**Author's Note:**

> Hawke is a miserable human being, suffering from depression, and he doesn’t take many steps toward recovery but instead just chooses to spend his life wallowing in his own despair. Just so you know. This fic isn't happy

It’s nearly dinnertime when Hawke pulls into the parking lot of his apartment building after a long day. Working as a mechanic isn’t his dream career—no, cars were more like a hobby to him—but it pays the bills while he attends evening classes to become an engineer. He parks at the very end of the row, in an almost too narrow space for his Pontiac GTO but it’s the only one left. Everyone after him will have to park around the block.

There’s mail in his box but he ignores it, trudging up the stairs to the third floor at a pace one would call ‘leisurely’ if he weren’t so tired. There’s a couch waiting in his living room with his name on it—literally, since the movers labeled it with a sharpie on the bottom when he first moved to Kirkwall—and he doesn’t have anything else on his mind except falling onto the cushions.

The stairs squeak under his shoes, always sounding like they’re about to give out beneath his weight but always seem to support the numerous people moving in and out of this place at any given time. He’s sent a complaint about it once, concerned about people’s safety, but it was ignored. He’s never actually met the people he pays rent to, but they don’t seem to care that there’s a crack dealer in the basement, not nearly enough parking spots, the creaking stairs, and paper-thin walls separating each apartment.

Speaking of thin walls…

Hawke threads his key through the lock of his front door to his modest yet overpriced one-bedroom apartment, bracing himself for what he expects to hear.

 _‘Ah,’_ he thinks to himself, feeling utterly relieved. _‘The sound of blissful silence.’_

It’s not always that way. Hawke’s patience has been pushed to its limits by the inhabitants of this building, but none are more irritating than the couple who live in the apartment directly above his. There’s two of them, and two cats from what little he’s gathered, and they’re annoyingly loud and happy.

Not that Hawke thinks people can’t be happy, but sometimes he prefers to stew in his own melancholy and discontentment and they just get in the way. _‘You brood like Fenris,’_ his friend Isabela once told him, _‘you have to make your own happiness sometimes.’_

He’s tried, but it's difficult when he’s not yet in his desired career and living alone in a place like this, just trying to get through each day.

Doesn’t stop the couple above him, though, since it seems they make their own happiness every day.

Hawke’s halfway through a movie and a nap—he dozes while the B-List action flick plays quietly on his old television—when he suddenly jerks awake. It takes him a few moments to regain his ability to think, pushing through the haze that settled over his mind, but then he hears it.

Loud music playing from the upstairs apartment. He doesn’t quite feel it in his bones like a custom car’s bassline, but it’s loud enough to wake him and that’s what matters. The song is played by a full jazz ensemble, the brass is clearly audible but the singer is muffled. It’s that old-fashioned music that one would hear in a black and white movie, upbeat but classic. There’s the tapping of feet, one beat off from being in tempo, which only adds to Hawke’s annoyance.

Knowing they won’t turn it down without being asked, Hawke swings his legs over the edge of the couch and slides his feet into the shoes he kicked off earlier. He stands and stretches, yawning and wondering, if only for a fleeting moment, if he could try sleeping through it this time.

Just then, the song changes to something uproariously cheerful and the footsteps quicken—they’re dancing now.

_‘Probably not.’_

He plucks his beer can off the coffee-table and drinks what little is left of it, grimacing as the now-warm beer slides down his throat. It’d be a waste to toss it.

The music only grows louder as he makes his way to the fourth floor, up those squeaky stairs he hates so much. Hawke wonders what he needs to say to make them stop, or at least remember to keep the volume down next time.

He knocks on the door, once then twice until the music is turned down to an acceptable level and he can hear hushed voices on the other side of the door. The handle jiggles and scrapes as it’s turned, and the door swings open to reveal one-half of the couple in question.

“Oops!” Anders says, looking like a cat that was caught trying to get at the bird. His long golden hair is drawn up into a half-ponytail and his amber eyes flash at Hawke on his doorstep. He’s incredibly handsome, even moreso when he smiles, even guiltily like he is now. “Were we too loud again? We’ll turn it down.”

“Sorry,” says another voice just as his— _boyfriend? husband?_ —partner steps into view. Karl hooks his arm around Anders’ shoulder affectionately. “Sometimes we just can’t help dancing along to the music. Making dinner together is simply too much fun.”

They grin at each other, leaning in until their noses nuzzle together to the point that makes Hawke feel sick to his stomach.

He doesn’t say anything, just nods and turns back toward the stairs. He wonders what being in that kind of love—deep, beautiful, _alive_ —would be like, but ultimately ignores the thought. Ever since the last of his family passed away a few years ago, he’s long since settled with the fact that he alienates himself too much to find someone. 

Grieving and being miserable doesn’t give him much time to put himself back together. It’s practically a full-time job.

Hawke sees Anders more often than any other building tenant, if only by chance. Usually Anders is at the mailboxes when Hawke comes home from work, giving him a casual wave and a bright smile. They have small talk while sorting through the junkmail and tossing it into the small recycling bin put out for this purpose, but Hawke tends to be the one to excuse himself off to his apartment when he can’t bare it any longer.

How, pray tell, does anyone smile so much?

Falling asleep to the now-quieter sounds of their music playing overhead, Hawke does eventually get his rest. He can still hear their footsteps, moving together in what he figures is a dance that moves through their kitchen and living room. Hawke finds himself going up the stairs a couple times a week, asking them to play the music a little softer and a little softer still.

… That is until one day, the music stops altogether.

It takes him several days to notice the prolonged silence, and he’s grateful for it at first. He sleeps better and is less agitated during the day. The silence continues for another week, leading Hawke to assume they’re just on vacation until he hears the quiet footsteps of one person tracking back and forth in the dead of night. 

He tries not to think of it, reminding himself that silence is good, silence is what he wants.

Weeks later, Hawke finds himself running home at noon because he forgot his lunch and wallet on the counter. The building is empty and quiet at this hour, with most people at work or elsewhere running their errands. He retrieves his things and makes his way back downstairs, pausing when he sees a glint of gold hair near the mailboxes.

With the music gone, Hawke hasn’t had much of a reason to visit his friendly upstairs neighbors, but it’s at this time that Hawke notices he hasn’t seen Anders at all in the past few weeks.

“Hey,” Hawke says as casually as he can muster, coming down the last flight of stairs.

Anders must not have heard him nor the squeaks of the stairs, as he jumps nearly out of his skin. The man spins on his heel so fast that his tall, lean body is thrown off-balance, and he stumbles to lean on the wall of mailboxes to steady himself. He looks haggard, like he hasn’t slept at all in quite a long time nor had much sunlight, his eyes are a bit puffy, and… 

He’s not smiling.

“Hello, Hawke,” Anders greets him, his voice sounding weakly cheerful but it doesn’t match the hollowed expression on his face. He reaches out, blindingly feeling around for his open mailbox and slamming it shut. He has a bundle of cards of various envelope colors in his hands, clutching them close to his chest while he makes his way past Hawke with a curt nod. “Excuse me.”

 _‘Strange,’_ Hawke thinks, comparing it to the behavior he’s gotten used to over the past few months. He shrugs, putting it all on the idea that not everyone is happy all the time and feeling slightly vindicated over it.

Until the pieces start clicking together.

_The music stopped so suddenly one day._

Hawke steps out into the parking lot beneath the grey and cloudy sky.

_The sound of only one pair of feet pacing._

Hawke puts the key into his car, pulling open the door to slide into the driver’s seat.

_Anders’ puffy eyes, almost as like he’d been crying._

“Ah, fuck,” Hawke says when it finally dawns on him. He tears the key out of the ignition, slamming his hands on the steering wheel. “Fuck, fuck, _fucking fuck!_ ”

He takes the stairs to the fourth floor two at a time, feeling slightly winded by the time he gets to the top. Closing the distance to the door with a few long strides, Hawke finds himself at the apartment doorstep that he’s so often found himself at under extremely different pretenses.

He knocks on the door, echoing through the hollow metal and sounding loud in the uncharacteristically silent hall. There’s no answer, so he knocks again and once more.

“Anders,” Hawke says, finally pushing past his own thoughts. He tries his best to sound soft and gentle with his request. “Please answer.”

Still nothing, so he tries again.

“Can we talk?” Hawke says, and a beep from his watch reminds him he only has five minutes left of lunch. He hesitates, his fist poised and hovering an inch from the door, but decides to ignore it. “Anders, it’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

His heart sinks a little.

“ _Please,_ ” Hawke says, now begging. “I haven’t seen you smile in such a long time. Haven’t heard you laugh or dance… Just—just open the door.”

Then silence, something he once craved but now is deafening. He’s about to give up hope when he hears a quiet shuffling noise on the other side of the door.

“Hawke,” Anders says, his voice raspy and shaking. “Just go away.”

It’s intense, the flood of relief he feels wash over him when Hawke hears his voice. He shudders, his tense shoulders slumping as he leans forward to rest his forehead against the door.

“Anders.” Hawke’s watch beeps again, signalling the start of the second half of his shift at the shop. “Anders, I’ll knock all day if necessary. Just please let me in.”

There’s no response, and Hawke worries for a moment that Anders had left him, retreated further into the apartment where he could no longer hear his voice. But then the handle jiggles and Hawke jumps back, finally letting out a breath he’s been holding.

The door swings open to reveal Anders, looking much like he had ten minutes ago but somehow much worse. His eyes are red and wet, with tear-tracks down his stubbled cheeks. He relents to Hawke’s pushing, stepping aside to let him in.

It’s the first time Hawke has been in any apartment in the building other than his own. The layout is exactly the same, but it’s furnished differently—better, like an actual couple with actual lives lived there unlike Hawke, who feels like he doesn’t belong in his own home. But the place is a mess, with clothes and dishes strewn about like no one has been able to clean them up in awhile.

Hawke turns to face Anders, practically cornering him in the narrow hall that opens up to the living room. The man can’t look him in the eyes, casting his gaze down toward the floor, and it makes Hawke feel like an asshole for barging in like this.

 _‘Still,’_ he reminds himself, _‘in for a penny, in for a pound.’_

He steps closer, wincing internally at the way that Anders backs himself up against the wall. His hand finds Anders’ shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze before he realizes he has no idea what he should say. _Sorry I barged into your apartment? Sorry I’ve been such an ass to you? Sorry you are hurting so much? Sorry your lover is…?_

“He’s…” Anders begins after a minute of silence. The fact that he’s the one to break the silence surprises Hawke, making him turn all his attention to Anders. He sniffles quietly, bringing up a hand to wipe the corner of his eye on his shirt cuff. “Karl… he’s _gone._ ”

“Gone?” Hawke repeats carefully, even though he knows. He _knows._

Anders swallows, his eyes closing in anguish. “Dead… car crash.”

There it is. He knew it—somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew there was something wrong ever since the week the music stopped—but hearing Anders say it himself hurts more than he could ever imagined. He knew something was off, but yet he was happy about the peaceful silence it’s given him in the meanwhile.

_‘Happy.’_

Hawke feels disgusted with himself. He was _happy_ while this man has been in pain, losing someone so close to him just as Hawke did years ago. He doesn’t deserve to be standing here, in Anders’ sacred space, trying to comfort him in the wake of Karl’s death, but the way that Anders’ arms reach out for him tells him otherwise.

It’s been a long time since he’s hugged anyone, but the hug with Anders is the warmest he’s ever had. He folds the man in his arms, his slender body meeting his own, and Anders immediately tucks his face against Hawke’s chest. He lets out a cracked sob, a full-body shudder rolling through him. He rubs soothing circles on Anders’ back, not knowing what else to do.

“I guess you’ll be happy to not have to deal with music keeping you awake anymore,” Anders says after a time, his voice hoarse and choking out the words. It’s supposed to be lighthearted, but it feels more like a sharp lance through his chest.

Hawke bristles at the insinuation, but more at hearing that fucking word: _‘happy.’_

He frowns, holding onto Anders tighter.

“Anders… I could never be happy since the music is gone for you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm an annoying miserable fuck like hawke
> 
> written for a prompt on tumblr
> 
> find me on tumblr @ storybookhawke


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